that’s actually me

Sometimes, I relive the most painful memories of the day that Oliver died, in an effort to force myself to accept that this is, in fact, my reality. That this isn’t some weird nightmare I’m in, it isn’t someone else’s life I’m looking down on. That isn’t someone else saying, “Yes, she had a twin brother, but he died.” That’s actually ME saying those words. That’s actually ME saying, almost sickeningly nonchalantly, that I just ordered the headstone for my baby’s grave, and it should be here in February, on a truck full of other headstones.

That’s me wondering what to do with the “Oliver” stocking I ordered while I was still pregnant, because PB was having a great sale. That’s me talking to my mom about ordering a Christmas “blanket” of fresh pine for his grave. That’s me making payments on his medical bills. That’s me looking at the photos from Avery’s recent photoshoot, and cursing the heavens or the Gods or whatever the fuck took him away from me.

That’s me wondering so often what he would look like now, today, right this second. What he would be doing that would be the same as his sister, or different than her. That’s me softly telling Henry that it’s not nice to say, “Baby looks dead” while talking about Avery.

That’s actually me, missing my sweet, chubby, perfect baby boy, every second, of every day. That’s me fearing that someday, I’ll forget so many of the little things he did. That’s me fearing that I’ve already started to.




Author: unaffected

Infertile mother to a 4-year-old and a 1-year-old twinless twin. Surviving motherhood after infant loss.

6 thoughts on “that’s actually me”

  1. So much love to you, my friend. I’m sorry that you have to experience grief like this. Write down every moment you can remember now – even the tough ones. It’s nice to read back on them later. xoxo


  2. Oh my gosh, I can not imagine this. I’m sitting in a coffee shop catching up on my blog reading… I’m friends with Lisa of Hapa Hopes and she noted your site to visit to support you (a fellow IVFer) . . . and then I started reading your blog. My heart GRIEVES with you. I do not understand this at all. I am balling in this coffee shop and people are staring and that’s fine because in this moment I feel with you.

    I do know that after several IVF failures (which is nothing in comparison to your loss), the book When Bad things Happen to Good People by Harold Kushner (who lost a child also), really helped me in my grief.

    I’m holding you in the light. I’m thinking of you. I’m so so so sorry sister.


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